Little Things
by livviedoo
Summary: A one-shot vignette set in Alexandria. Basically my head canon for why Michonne has been so desperate to settle and left out of the gang. First TWD fic and TWD sure as heck ain't mine because head canon would be show canon. That said, if I have stepped on any legal toes, I'm sorry. Rated T for wee bits in the middle. (Michonne and Ric G)


Although the vestiges of the humid summer air still envelop the zone during the day, the cool tease of the approaching autumn encroach at night, burrowing beneath the remnants of sun-spun sticky-heat. Michonne, seated sideways on the middle porch step, leans her head back against the railing, closes her eyes, and listens.

It is the quiet of safety, comfort and leisure. The still evening air is laced with the ambient noises of chatter and ritual Michonne finds bittersweet in its familiarity and antiquity.

It is all still so surreal.

The auto-tuned banality of some now-dead pop starlet wafts out someone's open windows a street or two away to compete with the faint rumble of casual conversation. She inhales deeply before turning her head sideways, nosing out the aroma of yet another feast being prepared next door by Carol and Eugene, who has surprised them all with his culinary skills. Apparently quality pots and a well-stocked pantry have awoken his inner Jamie Oliver.

'This is what you have wanted for so long' Michonne reminds herself, grimacing slightly, eyes still closed. "Then why can't I enjoy it?"

She senses him before she hears his voice.

"You keep talking to yourself like that Michonne, and people are gonna talk."

She smiles, opening her eyes to look up at him. His uniform seemingly as stiff and pressed as it was when he left that morning.

"You mean more than they are already?" The humour in her voice a contradiction of her words' sober truth.

"Well, I always wanted to be one of the popular kids." Rick makes to sit down with her on the step as Michonne swings her legs around to make room for him beside her, but he surprises her, opting to sit behind her, a step above, encasing her between his solid legs. She turns to look at him over her shoulder, eyebrow raised in question. He looks at her expectantly, asking and wanting permission.

She turns away so he will not be able to read the expectancy in her eyes, the ask and want that makes staccato rhythm of her heart. Rick waits, not because he fears rejection but because he knows her, and knows that although he will make the first move, the invitation has to be hers to give.

"Very smooth, Grimes" she smiles. Leaning back, she relaxes into him. "Is this a patented move or something?"

"Or something", a rasp tickling the edges of his voice. Despite the mixed warmth of the contact, she shivers before settling.'

"Cold?" he asks, knowing she is far from. It takes her a beat to respond.

"Concerned." Somewhere a few yards over there's a muffled shout, dimly followed by raucous laughter. "These people are soft, Rick. Worse yet, they have no idea how weak and vulnerable they are." She rests her elbows on her knees, hands hanging down in front of her chest, loose as strung laundry. Michonne shakes her head before continuing in a low voice. "I resent their naivete. I resent their lack of scars", she confesses. "They haven't earned this", she whispers.

Rick places his hands on her smooth shoulders, fingertips at her collarbone, thumb already rubbing circles at the back. He feels her involuntarily tense at first contact, and she apologizes.

"No need," he assures her, "Means you're not getting soft, you're still alert. Someone wise once told me comfortable gets you killed." He leans forward as he speaks, his last words reaching her ears as the stubble from his chin grazes her cheek. He breathes her in, turning so his lips burrows into the sensitive point where her neck meets her shoulder. He breathes out.

"How are you?" he asks with a gravitas that vibrates at the crook of her neck.

"Good," her voice a puff of air. It is impossible for her to focus when he is like this. It makes her vulnerable to him. And he knows it. She feels the smile of his lips on her skin as he kisses her lightly.

"You know what I mean. How do you feel?"

She brings a hand up to cross over her chest to lightly squeeze his hand.

"I'm good, Rick. I feel good. You worry too much."

"I worry about you. Well, you and..." his voice trails off.

She pivots so that her back rests against his inner thigh. Rick keenly feels the loss of intimate contact and moves a hand to rest once more at the back of her neck. She looks at him now, directly in his eyes. Despite the dim light of night she can see something steel in them. And something vulnerable.

"I'm going to be fine. No matter what happens. No matter where we are. As long as we are wherever we are together." She nods to emphasize her point.

"I wanna believe that Michonne," he scrubs his free hand over his face, exhaling in hesitant resignation. He notices her movements have rucked up her skirt. without thinking he moves his free hand to pick-play at the hem, knuckles brushing her smooth skin. "We were out there so long...". He avoids her steady gaze to look up and over at the the walls of their new garrison. You know why we're here, why it was important that we came here and will stay. For a while. But shelter alone is not a guarantee that things will go right."

She knows he is thinking of Lori. Michonne wishes she had met her, this woman who was painfully loved by this man and his son, this woman who, through making the ultimate sacrifice, secured the life of one child while scarring the life of the other. This woman who had made this man who seemed so secure and solid in his actions and choices, the wild-eyed shell that took her in while simultaneously seeming to punish her for the crime of her gender at a time when his anger had nowhere else safe to alight.

"This isn't the prison".

He huffs surprise at her perception and shakes his head.

"No," he concedes, "this isn't the prison. But then, at least we knew the threat lay outside our walls. Now..." He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Things are getting a little too serious and Michonne decides that tonight they'll pretend, just for a few minutes. She stands up and extends her hand toward him. He smiles acquiescence and rises to clasp it in his own.

He loves the feel of her hand in his. Small yet deceptively adept. Callous-hardened still, but able to make him react in ways he thought he would never do again. In his mind's eye he sees her, eyes boring into his as she is poised above him, strong legs firmly gripping slick thighs as she pushes off from his bare chest, rising then descending with a moan that makes him clamp his hands on her bare waist to hold her still as he bucks up into her with a groan that uncoils from the pit of his stomach. Later, sated, those same small, strong hands enfold his face as she kisses her love into him.

Rick squeezes her hand to get her attention, then gently tugs her into his embrace his arms moving to encase her. Michonne's arms snake around his waist, her wrists loosely crossed just below his belt. When she looks up at him, he pulls her even closer and rests his forehead against hers.

"Are you good?" she asks.

His answer is a languid kiss. Nipped lips and undulating tongues and hands appreciating the silky maneuverability of the skirt that covers her ass.

They part with Michonne's breathy laugh. "I...I guess you're good then."

Rick tampers a witty reply and clasps her hand once more to continue their amble through the streets of Alexandria.

They stroll down the middle of the road, the silence between them comfortable and contemplative.

Woodbury and Terminus rise spectre-like in her mind. The Governor. Andrea. And Hershel and Bob. Her eyes close and the tapestry of memory unravels, unspooling threads of ghosts refusing to be exorcised: Andre. Mike. Terry. The family in Lester County that did not believe her. The men at the camp outside St. Helen's. The primary school she thought had been empty...

Time was obsidian; dark, solid and unyielding, and now her memories, like fingertips trailed along its surface, were being tripped up by the pull and tug of doubt and fear of experience. The losses and the horrors of the past few years making a paradox of the pedestrian complacency of Alexandria. Except for Deanna. Michonne's innate ability to sense people out had saved her many times in the past, telling her when to be wary and when to trust.

"I don't trust Deanna," her voice quiet.

"I think that's good" Rick squeezes her hand. He leans into her, lowering his head and voice. "I don't trust any of this," he quietly admits, eyes scanning manicured, impossibly green lawns that in another life were a source of envy. "It's all been too easy. They're not desperate. They're not threatened. They don't seem to need us."

"So what's the play." Michonne finishes, her voice devoid of question.

"Exactly. For us - we be cautious. More of the same. Becoming the people they need us to be. I'm the reluctant, yet competent face of law enforcement, Maggie a Hillary Clinton -"

"Making Deanna Bill," Michonne interjects, unsuccessfully suppressing the humour in her voice.

"I guess so," Rick laughs aloud, wrapping their entwined hands behind her to pull her closer.

Michonne grins up at him, releases his hand to snake hers around his waist, mirroring his side-long embrace. "Carol's channeling some kind of super Mrs. Cleaver or something and Daryl..." She laughs. "Daryl's making like some kind of feral Grizzly Adams. I think he scares the shit out of Deanna. Not that she'd let it show."

"You're right at that. On both counts." She feels a seriousness set over him. "Part of me is relieved that Deanna made us partners, but part of me is terrified..." He feels her about to interject so he pushes past it. "But so far so good. Everyone is safe. We're all together. Everything's going to plan." He takes a deep breath. For the first time in a very long time he does not smell his mortality, nor sense the latent, ever-present awareness of how fickle and fragile life is. "We just have to feel these people out, see if they're lying to us about things or are just have been dammed lucky."

"I don't believe in luck, Rick."

"Me neither. But it's going to take time, 'Chonne, that's all. And patience."

Somehow they've managed to complete a circuit and have ended up back where they started. Michonne slowy disentangles herself from Ric, her hand trailing down his lower arm as she heads up the porch steps. At the top step she notices Ric isn't following so she stops and turns to face him, a question on her face.

"You're not coming in?"

"Not yet," he sees disappointment flutter across her face. He reaches up and rubs her hip before giving it a squeeze of assurance. "But soon. Promise."

Michonne regards him for a beat before finding herself releasing a yawn she could not suppress. That this embarrasses after everything...The realization makes her giggle behind the hand she has raised to cover her mouth. Rick's eyes widen, eyebrows to hairline, as he too allows a smile to escape.

"Sorry to be such a bore, I guess" he chided, taking a step so that he can rest his other hand on its mirrored hip. Out of habit, his thumbs draw trace circles and despite the layer of clothing separating skin, he feels the slight swell of her protruding belly. He is at once both thrilled and terrified.

Michonne cups his face with both hands and bends forward to kiss away the furrow in his brow.

"You worry too much," she whispers, grazing his forehead.

"You've already told me that."

She pulls back to catch his gaze. "Still doesn't make it less true."

"No, I reckon you're right about that. But then, I have more to worry about now." He pointedly looks at her, then lets his eyes glance with equal directness at her abdomen.

"We're going to be fine." This time, when she leans in to kiss him, it is his mouth she finds. She is smiling before the kiss ends. "But I," she once again fails to suppress a yawn, eyes watering with the effort of keeping it in. "I am definitely done for the night, so I am definitely going to bed."

This time it is Rick who leans forward to plant a kiss on her stomach. The simple beauty of the gesture makes her eyes water for a different reason. She turns without speaking, her hand involuntarily placed over the spot where his lips once we're.

Later he will ascend the picket-railed steps of their designer dream home, turn off the light on Carl's desk, maybe having to remove comics from his pillow and place them on his night stand. Next, he will peek in on Judith, gently replacing the sheet she will have undoubtedly kicked off in her sleep. It's these little things that mend the wounds his humanity sustained in that world before this one, that were mere scratches in the world before that. And after standing still in the hallway, listening to the nocturnal noises of this strange, tenuous domesticity he has found for his family, he will wash up, strip down to his boxers and crawl into bed, spooning safety with his body, as his hand finds its resting place on Michonne's growing tummy, his future in his hands.


End file.
